The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 135: Who exactly are you?

He had looked at her like she was something fragile. Like she mattered.

A breath caught in her throat.

Was he okay? Was he even alive?

Shaking off the sudden weight in her chest, she quickly dried off and slipped the dress over her head.

It fell lightly over her curves, brushing against her knees. She tied a thin hide belt around her waist, her movements slower, thoughtful now.

Before leaving, she looked down at the water, narrowed her eyes, and whispered, "You didn’t win."

Then she turned and walked away, barefoot on the stone path, head held high.

But her eyes still burned a little.

"You’re done."

Cyrus’ voice was warm, soft, but startling in the quiet. Isabella looked up, water still trickling from the ends of her damp blonde hair. He stood a few paces away, waiting like he had been there for a while—too patiently.

His arms were crossed lightly over his chest, but his posture was relaxed, almost protective. When their eyes met, his lips curved into the kindest smile.

For a second, Isabella forgot to blink.

There was a softness in his expression that made her heart shift in an uncomfortable, confusing way. His gaze trailed over her, pausing just a second too long. From her freshly washed hair clinging to her shoulders, to the simple but clean linen dress cinched neatly at her waist.

"Wow," Cyrus murmured, mostly to himself.

Isabella tilted her head, blinking. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d just embarrassed himself. "You just... you look like someone who doesn’t belong in a place like this."

She gave a soft "heh" in return, brushing her wet hair off her face with the back of her hand. Her smile was small but sincere.

Then she noticed it—Cyrus’s gaze narrowing, just slightly. He was looking at her dress.

Her stomach dipped.

Oh no. Was something wrong with it? Was it see-through?! Did it stick to her in the wrong places?!

She resisted the urge to fold her arms over herself. Panic bloomed in her chest like a weed. She cleared her throat and tried to play it cool, but her fingers tugged lightly at the edge of her dress as if that would somehow fix whatever was wrong.

"Isabella..." Cyrus said slowly, calmly, like a man preparing to step into dangerous waters. "May I ask you something?"

That tone.

Her smile tightened.

"Yes?" she said sweetly, almost too sweetly. Red flag. Even she could hear it.

Cyrus’ expression was thoughtful now, but his voice was gentle. "Are you... a daughter of someone influential? From one of the major cities, maybe?"

Her smile faltered.

Just a flicker—but enough.

Isabella blinked. Her brain promptly stopped working. Influential? Cities? Why did it feel like she’d been yanked into a conversation she hadn’t studied for?

"No," she said, and her voice came out too fast. "I’m not."

Cyrus frowned. Not suspiciously—he didn’t have it in him—but the kind of frown a genuinely concerned person wore when something didn’t make sense and they were trying to understand without jumping to conclusions.

"Then..." he said carefully, "how did you come across such material? The craftsmanship—it’s from a skilled hand. Too skilled for this area."

Damn. She hadn’t expected that.

The dress. That was what this was about.

She almost exhaled in relief. For a second there, she thought he knew something dangerous.

A half truth formed on her lips—a simple one about it being a gift—but she stopped herself. The strange man who gave it to her flashed through her memory, his eyes, his presence, the mystery that clung to him.

She didn’t trust Cyrus. And she didn’t want to talk about the man either.

Her lips curved into a much different smile now. Not her usual sugary one. This one had teeth.

"When i took you in, did I press for your secrets?" she asked, clicking her tongue against the back of her teeth. Her tone was light, but there was iron beneath it.

Cyrus blinked.

"Exactly," she continued, voice dipping lower. "So maybe you should let me keep mine."

Cyrus’s jaw tensed, but not in anger. In restraint. His brows drew together, not offended, but worried.

"I just don’t want you to come to harm," he said, and there was something more behind his words this time. Not suspicion—fear.

"Why would I?" Isabella shrugged, though her voice came out a little too sharp. "I’m perfectly fine, aren’t I?"

But even as she said it, a chill crept up her spine. Something about the emotion in Cyrus’ voice was... off. Too heavy. Too knowing.

She turned to walk past him, but he didn’t move. And then—

"Then tell me," he said, so quietly it nearly got lost in the breeze, "why you went to the mountain. Alone."

Her feet stopped. Just stopped.

A strange, hollow sound echoed in her ears. The world tilted.

The mountain?

Her fingers clenched slowly at her sides. She hadn’t told anyone about that. No one knew. Not about the mountain, not about those men, not about where she had gotten Glimora. She had killed them.

She hadn’t bothered to erase the signs. But the way he looked at her—it was as if he’d read every page of a diary she never wrote.

Her pulse quickened, and every muscle in her body tightened. She turned to face him, eyes wide, color draining from her face. Her lips parted, but it took a full second before her voice worked.

"Y-you..." she stammered. "Who exactly are you?"

And just like that, something broke in Cyrus.

The kindness in his eyes didn’t fade, but it cracked. Guilt bled through the edges. He stepped forward—just a little, cautiously—as though approaching a wounded animal.

"I didn’t mean to scare you," he said quietly. "I didn’t."

But the way she looked at him—with that mix of fear and betrayal—made his chest ache.

He didn’t know why it hurt so much. He just knew that it did.